Done a madness 

Fairs

Tart cart

The hurty bum

Bony and boobless

Pubes in exile

Hairy eyeballs

Scared mayonnaise

Showmance

Shit off a shovel

Handy carroll

Waft knickers

Knickery waft

Day dot

Own it with chest

Don’t deep it

Kiss was sick

Early doors

It’s half-monkey

It’s dead sore

Giving desperate

Insinuated them kisses

Kisses like a washing machine

I deeped it

It’s given me the ick

Wifed off

Super gassed

Million percent

Fire fits

My spleen is silent

 I’m waiting for the Naan

Korma Chameleon

You can’t Curry love

Dansak Queen

Poppadom Preach

Tikka to Ride

Blame it on the Bhaji

Abba - Vindaloo

Paperback Raita

Roti for Luck

Cumin Feel the Noize

Coriander Beat Goes On

Don't Murgh Yourself

Mama Weer Jalfrezi Now

How Soon Is Naan

Girlfriend in A Korma

 

Colour supplement piece glued into a scrapbook circa 1979 - the author is possibly Keith Waterhouse. 

Attempts to put these prank tactics into practice - in the elevator at Dillons, in department stores - led to underwhelming results. Perhaps grown-ups instinctively tune out the prattlings of children. Perhaps we weren't good enough actors. 

Conversely, eavesdropping rarely trawls up anything very startling or surreal. 

 

 

The dish in question - the twice-baked Cropwell Stilton soufflé

I don't know why the language in this review of the posh Jermyn Street restaurant Wiltons amuses me so much -  the "undeniably accurate" guidance, the pungent cheesy flavor that "shone through in every bite" - the odd detail about how his fork disturbed the perfectly formed mound...  the wooden and windy "great opening chapter" and the confession that he could have eaten another should there have been "the opportunity to do so."

Sort of Robert Morley meets E.L. Wisty is how I imagine this being read aloud. 

Yet it's a young man who wrote it. 

Reviewer's ID mentions that he was born in the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg - not just Luxembourg which would be enough for most people, but the Grand Duchy

Another dish, more lumbering language

I dunno, looks pretty unappetising to me...

Two old English gentlemen enjoying the fine dining experience at Wiltons (founded 1742)

rejected Daily Telegraph story phoned in from a regional stringer where it reached the copy-editing stage (my dad) but was deemed insufficiently newsworthy to go to press. Maybe on a slower news day? My father brought it home for our entertainment. 

Daily Telegraph's equivalent of Page 3 in those days was not bare-chested young ladies but grisly stories - "boy's arm severed in elevator accident", that kind of thing. Maybe if the car had reversed and crushed a granny or smashed through someone's living room, the news item might have had legs.